Every Little Piece
by JennaBennett
Summary: If the film crew can call Pam and Jim out on their relationship in "Fun Run", this doesn't completely suspend disbelief… An AU take on "Back From Vacation," wherein Jim receives some insight from an unlikely source.


Jim looks up from picking dutifully at his tuna sandwich to find Tom, the camera guy from the film crew, giving him a silent, sideways nod that points him towards the conference room. Jim releases a steady sigh. He's not in the mood for a talking head. He just doesn't have _that_ carefree charismatic dude inside of him today - or yesterday, or last week, or for the past six months for that matter.

Sometimes he wonders if the documentary crew can tell that he's been operating on autopilot since his return from Stamford. He never pictured himself as much of an actor, he felt that much of the footage that the crew has collected over the past couple of years has been authentically him, but now he's playing a carefully crafted part. So, he _wonders_. He wonders if they too mourn for the chunk of _him_ that died last year in a shimmer of turquoise and a haze of crumpled hope.

He feels the cameras tracking him as he weakly smiles at Karen each day, he wonders if it shows that edges of his lips don't curl as high as they used to. Does the camera catch that the joy in his gaze is always muted now? Do they capture the flicker of pain, every time Pam speaks and his heart catches? Can they show what is lost? Jim doesn't - _didn't?_ \- know much about grief, but he knows this, it was easier in Stamford.

There, he grieved for the part of his soul that had clung to the hope that there would be something more. Here, he grieves for their friendship and somehow it's so much harder. It's difficult to balance his emotions when he misses her so fiercely and yet she's right before him, but still so out of reach. He's also furious with her which wars daily with the part of him that desperately wants to kiss her again and still can't _believe_ that June 10th has passed by without event. He's a mess, that's all there is to it. Still, he wonders how much the film crew really see.

He glances up from his thoughts, to find Tom still beckoning. He follows, because that's what life is when you've worked with a film crew for the best part of three years.

He takes his usual place, back to the blinds and steels himself to face whichever asinine questions are coming. His head rises to find the usual camera crew missing. It's just Tom and he's sitting at the table, slipping a DVD into the aged television on the cart. Tom catches Jim's eye, gestures him over again, before wordlessly pressing play.

The first thing that's obvious to Jim is that whatever Tom is playing him is footage from the film crew. Then he registers what's playing. It's yesterday and Pam is talking to him about Karen and their moving woes. Jim shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, because truth be told, it still hurts. There's a part of him that's maybe goading Pam, asking for any evidence that she doesn't want him to be with Karen. And when she's nothing but supportive it stings a little, it's like she's declaring her disinterest in him once again. He tries to forget the times he was _that_ supportive friend when it came to Roy.

The scene changes. It's still yesterday. Pam is still wearing the same clothes. He hates himself for being able to place the picture before him based on that alone. She's down in the warehouse. Karen is speaking to her and Jim's chest tightens. She's as lovely and supportive with Karen and he expects nothing less from her. He hates this, he doesn't know why Tom's showing him _this_. It feels like the greatest hits of his failures – the girl he can never have but always wants taunting him, pushing him towards the girl who doesn't say _I can't_ and ruin him forever.

He doesn't have time to think on it because the scene has changed again.

He hears his breath hitch and knows Tom's eyes are on him. Pam is crying. She's slumped over, with her face in her hands and sobs wracking her body. Jim feels his heart in his throat. He wants to glance at Tom to confirm the timeline, but he can't drag his eyes away. Then he notices it, the timestamp in the corner. It's got to be straight after she talked to Karen – her name tastes acidic as it forms in his mind. Another name is pulsating, pounding through his brain, _Pam_.

He watches Dwight – _Dwight_ of all people – comfort her and his heart cracks in two. Dwight's arm stretches around her shoulders as the sobbing intensifies. Jim has to wipe at the moisture beginning to pool at the corners of his eyes.

But Tom isn't done and obviously the working title for this little project was all the times stupid Jim Halpert who could have had everything he's ever wanted has instead made her cry. Her hair is getting almost imperceptibly shorter with each teary clip so he thinks that they're moving back in time and then they're there – it's the Monday after Casino Night and Michael is declaring to the office that Jim is a traitor and the camera pans to the reception desk. Pam freezes. He sees the air leaving her lungs. Her eyes well, huge and round. She doesn't even blink and they're overflowing. She's still frozen, with fat tears streaming down her face. Michael is ranting and raving in the background. Pam slowly comes back to life. She ducks her head and pulls the sleeve of her cardigan over her hands as she quickly wipes her tear-stained cheeks.

Jim feels his own face mirroring hers, tears tracking down his cheeks.

The screen turns to black.

His reflection faces him. Eyes wide with shock. He blinks slowly and sees a flash of something else in his gaze – something he hasn't allowed himself to feel since the aftermath of the casino night – hope. He blinks again and it steels in his expression.

A strangled laugh escapes him. He claps his hand over his mouth. Tom likely thinks he's a lunatic. But. Pam _left_ Roy. She called _off_ her damn wedding. She's been crying over _him_, Jim. He is an idiot. He needs to fix this. It's the first time since the casino night ripped his chest in two that he thinks maybe he can fix it.

He's on his feet before he thinks. Every fibre of his body is screaming one glorious syllable, his three favourite letters _P-a-m_. Some tiny corner of his mind whispers Karen and he deflates. He's made things complicated to say the least.

He knows he needs to fix this, but he's not sure how he fixes it from here? He sinks back to his seat and catches his head with his hands. Tom's hand rests on his shoulder for the briefest moment. He rises his head just in time to see Tom slip through the conference room door. The latch doesn't catch and affords Jim a glimpse of reception.

He watches as Pam glances up and offers Tom a weary smile. He sees it now, the way her smile looks a little worn around the edges, the way it doesn't light up her eyes like it used to. He misses her real smile, the one that crinkles her eyes and pinches her nose. He misses his own smile, the one that curls at the ends and almost splits his cheeks in half.

He continues to stare. Pam's gaze drifts from Tom to the barely open cracked door, to _him_. Still, he continues to stare. He stares as their eyes lock. He stares as he sees her hesitate and almost drop her gaze before squaring her eyes to his. He stares as her cheeks pinken, blush coloring the apex of her throat. He stares as she offers him the most hesitant of soft smiles. He stares as she gently quirks a brow, in a silent question. He stares as he shakes his head and her gaze switches from concern to confusion.

He rubs the side of his head and sees his pain reflected in her eyes. He's struck with just how much he has missed her, Pam his friend, not Pam who rejected him and tore his carefully routine life to pieces. He offers her the weakest of smiles and then stands to his feet. He keeps his eyes on her until he hits the door, then he spins, heading into Michael's office instead.

"I'm sick," he murmurs.

Michael assesses him carefully as his eyes widen. He nods. "You look all pale and sweaty. Go, get out of here and take your germs with you," he waves his hand in dismissal.

Jim grabs his jacket and his bag and meets Karen's eyes for a brief moment, "sick," he mouths. She nods and returns to her phone call, the flicker of concern passing before it really begins.

He hesitates at reception on the way out. Pam clears her throat and he pauses. She stretches out a hand and he opens his in response. She deposits a few Aspirin onto his palm with a careful nod and a furrowed brow. "Thank you," he chokes. He's struck by how very wrong he has been all these months of trying to tell himself that he can – and _wants_ to – fall out of love with her.

As her fingertips gently press into his palm as she pulls her hand back, he feels the fever he's been faking kick into gear. Her faint touch is enough to send his body temperature skyrocketing and set his heart pounding.

He heads out the door and drifts to his car, shrugging the weight of the past few months off his shoulders, leaving it to crumple on the floor of the elevator. He feels fifty pounds lighter as he strides the last few paces to his car.

By the time he's pulled into his drive, he's formulated a plan. It's sloppy and messy and there's no way he gets out of this without hurting someone. But, that's life and when hasn't it kind of sucked at least a little bit? There's no way everyone wins, but he can live with a few select individuals thinking he's a complete jerk. He kind of has been a jerk lately, so it won't be an unfair assessment by any stretch of the imagination.

He settles onto his sofa and calls Karen. He calls her direct line, bypassing reception, and hopefully another tearful moment for Tom to add to his collection. He cringes at the very thought of it. He never wants an expansion of that footage. There was more than enough and he's reminded of what a fool he's been. He's filled with all manner of _what ifs_ – what if he'd given her more time? What if he'd called? What if he'd never left? What if –

"Hello?" the wrong voice pierces his thoughts.

"Karen," he croaks in greeting.

"You really do sound sick," she murmurs and he pictures the way her brow pinches and it always seems like annoyance is etched over her features and not concern.

He swallows the lump in his throat and says, "come over for your lunch break." _So I can break up with you_, his mind whispers, completing the request.

"Okay," her tone brightens considerably.

And, yeah, maybe he is a jerk.

He waits.

He alternates between pacing nervously and gulping water. This has to be done. His nerves aren't from the act itself, but the way it will make him seem. He's supposed to be the _good guy_, right? That's always been his schtick. The thing he markets himself on.

There's a buzz and for a second he thinks it's his doorbell. He hasn't lived here for that long and it doesn't quite feel like home. Everything is a little _off_. He glances out his peephole to find his stoop empty. It takes him another moment to realise it's his cell phone. He pulls it from his pocket and glances down at the message and can't clamp down on the grin that erupts.

_Jim. Hope you feel better soon. Pam._ He's making the right choice. He can live with whatever _other_ consequences there may be.

There's a ring that actually is his doorbell and he slips his phone back into his pocket and opens his door to the inevitable.

Karen must read it on his face. She sighs in greeting and slips into the room. She sits on the sofa, arms crossed and expression carefully neutral.

He rips the Band-Aid off.

His hand finds the back of his neck and he rubs it gingerly. "Karen, I… You're really great, but I think we should break up," the words taste like ash as they fall from his lips. But it's not unpleasant, it's the kind of ash that a phoenix rises from. It's not the end, it's the beginning. A beginning that's birthed from the flames of the past.

It's definitely the end for Karen though, and she knows it. "Is this about the rental?" she wonders, but doesn't question it.

He shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs. "Not really," he pauses. "It's me," he murmurs, "so cliché, but it's me, not you."

"You've always had one foot out the door."

"That's true," he assesses gently and hangs his head.

"I'm not surprised. But I am pissed off," her tone is more biting now.

He bites his lip and stares at the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispers after a moment.

She's rising to her feet. "You know what, screw you, Jim," her feet stamp and the door slams. The worst of it is over. He's sure she'll have more to say later, but he doesn't worry about that now. What's done is done, and this whole thing was Karen is most definitely _done_.

He spends the rest of the day preparing for phase two. First, he carefully gathers the few things of Karen's that have found their way into his apartment. There's a blouse in the laundry and a book a by the bed, a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. He gathers in into a bag and drops it into the lobby of her hotel with a bashful smile to the girl behind the desk.

After that, he watches the clock.

It's all about the timing.

He makes a carefully placed call to Tom.

He waits.

At quarter to five, he starts his engine. At ten to five, he pulls into the lot. At eight to five, he starts walking up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At one to five, he watches carefully from the stairwell as the elevator fills with his colleagues.

At five, he walks into the office. He finds the reception desk empty. A quick glance around the room and he spots her in the conference room, her pink sweater a shining beacon against all the drabness surrounding her. She's finishing up on a talking head and his call to Tom has accomplished all he set out for it to do. Pam is the only person left in the office at the end of the day.

He's waited patiently-_ish_ all afternoon and he finds he can't wait any longer. The cameras have already captured more than he knew. What's to lose in them capturing this too? He doesn't care at this point.

He pushes the door open.

Pam's eyes flit to him, shock is quickly replaced with a quiet steadfast affection. He smiles, and it's real. He's almost surprised that his muscle memory has retained how to really smile after all this time and all the half-hearted attempts that he's delivered recently.

"Pam," he starts, mouthing a quick, "sorry," to the camera even though he really isn't. "Umm, are you free for dinner tonight?"

Her answer is quick and automatic. It's the opposite of _I can't_. "Yes," she states.

"All right. Then… It's a date." He taps the doorframe decisively and starts to slip from the room. Pam's gaze follows his retreat her eyes wide and glassy. She grins and her whole face comes to life.

No sooner has he shut the door, then she is opening it again and following him out into the office. He can't stop beaming goofily at her. He leans against his desk and she flings herself into his arms. It's the morning of the merger all over again, she's wrapped around him, trembling and he isn't sure if she's laughing or crying.

He rubs his hands up and down her back as she hiccups. He presses a kiss to her hair and instead of missed opportunities, she smells like all that is to come. She pulls back enough to look and him and all he can do is bend his head just enough for her to reach for his lips and she is. She kisses him and it's everything.

He opens his mouth to her and she deepens the kiss, tugging herself even closer to him. The ashes that had been in his mouth earlier are now open flames, rising and flickering, burning with a desire he didn't know he possessed. He pushes his hand under Pam's sweater, drifting across the skin on her back, scorching everything in its wake. She matches him, touch for touch, stroke for stroke and somehow her small hands have tugged his shirt from his belt and are dancing tantalisingly across the skin of his stomach.

The conference door slamming jerks them back to some semblance of reality. Tom flashes him a grin over Pam's head as the camera crew retreat. Pam blushes fiercely. "I forgot about them," she giggles.

"We'll blackmail them for the footage tomorrow," Jim shrugs. When push comes to shove, maybe he doesn't really mind that the film crew have been documenting their lives over the past few years. "I owe Tom a coffee," he adds.

Pam nods agreeably. "So do I," she winks and he's left wondering exactly _whose_ idea it was to show him that footage this morning…

"Dinner?" she smiles, extending her hand.

He grasps it like the lifeline that it is. "Definitely."

Halfway to the car, he decides it doesn't matter. All that matters is Pam's delicate hand clasped in his. He'll buy the both of them their caffeinated hot drinks of preference for life if he gets to end everyday like this one.


End file.
